


Scintilla

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Exploration, F/F, Kink Exploration, Masturbation, One Shot, Phone Sex, Season/Series 02, Self-Discovery, Smut, Solo Kink, Video, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: (n.) a tiny trace or spark of a specified quality or feeling.Loneliness doesn’t cure the gnawing of her stomach, her heart, and whatever indescribable ailment Vera Bennett suffers from.





	Scintilla

**Author's Note:**

> Another belated birthday gift for my sweet girl. xoxo
> 
> Apologies for the lack of comments and replies. This semester has been hectic.
> 
> I listened to Joji's "Yeah Right" on repeat while writing this.

Nights off – the third shift, in particular – feel unprecedented. Dressed not to impress, but for comfort’s sake, Deputy Governor Bennett finds herself at her unoccupied, empty kitchen table. Stripped down, removed from the uniform, she continues to feel uncomfortable - even in the baggy clothing. A bottle of Pinot Noir begs to be sampled; still, Vera hesitates, blue-grey eyes darting down to her bland, worn civis. She feels too bland, too boring, too damn _vanilla_.

With her cheeks colored, she finds herself retreating to her bedroom albeit temporary. Rather than her closet, she finds this appealing number in her dresser drawer, hidden beneath many woolen socks. Out, out, comes the silken robe which slips through her fingers, a river reborn. A nice lingerie set follows. When Vera redresses, she avoids making contact with the mirror. She’s never bold enough to face herself.

The cool, night air leaves her exposed. She pulls the robe shut, belt tight around her trim, narrow waste. At least Mum’s cries no longer permeate the peeling, floral wallpaper. Inwardly, Vera curses herself for thinking that. Some topics remain taboo. 

Full of reservation, she trapezes barefoot to the kitchen. Pours herself the glass she’s been craving and waiting for before taking a hearty sip. Her iPhone’s interface touches the table. Recently, Vera has updated the contact from Governor Ferguson to _Joan_ given the nature of their intimate debriefs. Though she feels lonely, she avoids giving into her need to communicate. Nerves inspire aversion. So it goes.

The quietude of her recently vacant home does little to console her. This will take some getting used to. Loneliness doesn’t cure the gnawing of her stomach, her heart, and whatever indescribable ailment Vera Bennett suffers from. In hearty gulps missing a toast, she washes down her shyness. Warmth fills her body and it’s oh so satisfying. This is the incentive – to unwind with wine, some incentive to warm her joints, just a glass before bed.

She drinks alone, she lives alone, what a boring life. This is her own version of baiting. Her gaze wanders toward her flipped phone: a wreckage that so perfectly echoes her chaotic life. Drinking for encouragement, she reaches for it and texts a reckless message (or as reckless as can be conceived in her Puritan mind).

“I miss you,” Vera texts simply, her elbows on the table, without warning.

Unable to deny Joan’s powerful allure, Vera finds herself hopelessly attracted. A quivering thumb hits send. She turns the interface over, not daring to look at the glowing screen.

Confined within her prison palace, the Governor checks her leather wristwatch. The CCTV rests, the skeleton crew working in her absence. Approaching her shiny, sleek vehicle to return to her frigid kingdom, she raises a brow. At the message, Joan Ferguson purses her lips.

Let the games begin.

A few minutes later, her phone goes off: _What will you do about it, Vera?_

At the indecipherable message, Vera’s pinky drags down her bottom lip. Tense, she chews at a nail. She quells her shite habit with a sip of wine. Ever the lightweight, after a glass and a half, she feels bubbly. Stretching, she rises from the creaking wooden chair, phone in hand, determined to strike an impression.

Silence washes over _her_ home. Such a funny phrase, she thinks to herself, retreating to the master bedroom. Vera scrutinizes herself in the mirror. Coquettishly, her hip cants. Her body sways. She frets. Would Joan find her repulsive? Mildly inebriated, wine gets the better of her. Alas, nimble fingers pluck at the robe’s sash.

Gradually, the turquoise silk robe slips from her lithe body, its motion akin to a rippling river. Silk and lace become the evening’s vice. She wears black: a color that betrays her interests. The bra generously cups her pert breasts while the panties enhance her musculature while modestly shielding the sacred space between her legs. Sucking the air between her teeth, she clicks a photo. Sends again.

On her night ride, Joan receives a heavenly delight. Ulterior motives cast aside, her glossy lips form a devious smirk. She changes the course, her trajectory no longer her flat, but Vera’s residence.

“Oh, Vera. It’s not my birthday,” Joan husks.

There’s more to come.

In due time, all nerves simmer while she moves in reverse. Freed from her former shackles, Vera relaxes. The sweet, innocent act fades away in the comfort of her abode. Her back meets her plush mattress protected by her lush doona and layers of sheets.

No sense in hiding beneath. Like the unwrapping of some gift, she peels back the cover. Chestnut curls shake loose, spilled across the dented, misshapen pillow. Fantasies play out in a hungry mind. Complimentary to the bleak, grey sheets, an electric charge runs through her. She craves a body on top of hers, one with curves, confidence, and an inexplicable femininity balanced with masculinity.

For once in her life, she feels attractive.

Joan makes her feel _sexy_.

Dissatisfied by the angle, she switches positions. Her fingers toy with her bra straps, shedding them one at a time. Unclasping the piece, it slithers away. On the edge of the bed, she deposits this number. Nails scrape her chest. Red streaks leave a crying mark as she moves to coax her nipples to harden. Her breath hitches. Shameless in privacy, her meekness dissipates. Vera records herself, her cell spins to capture the right angle.

Again, she hits ‘send.’

Transmission received.

Once, she operated with diffidence; she feels as if she were melting, albeit in a pleasurable sense. When she arches her back, her body rises from the bed. In an attempt to stifle herself, she bites her lip. Hitches her breath. Makes for a scandalous show. Sighing, she twists and writhes. The Governor’s name slips from her pursed lips.

Initially, modesty stifles her needy moans, sheepish until given a reason to obey. Modest self-exploration intensifies. A curious touch slithers past her flat stomach and beneath the waistband of her panties. Vera lives in a realm of fantasies. Why not enact upon another?

As if she knew, the Governor calls her back. With one of her phones connected to the car stereo, Joan bears witness to a voyeuristic delight. Now on a hands-free videocall, she contains her ghost of a smirk. Tighter, with gusto, her leather-clad hands grip the steering wheel. Technology functions as an aid as opposed to a hindrance.

“Prolong your pleasure,” the Governor demands.

As her confidence soars, fawn-like legs tremble. Satisfaction derived from the solitary audience, Vera is quick to submit. Holding the phone in one hand, the cramping of her wrist compels her to relocate. Joan remains on the receiving end while she strips down. Laid bare, her heart may as well be bloody and exposed.

“I prefer to see for myself, Vera,” Joan reminds her.

Soft, pliant breasts press into her hands. Fixated, near obsessed with the deed, she mewls, whines, and writhes. Joan savors the view and drinks in Vera’s licentious ministrations that orchestrate her loving self-pleasure.

Quite timidly, she explores herself. The dim glow of the night lamp swathes her lithe body in a delightful honey shade. That agonizing pleasure drives her listless, akin to an electric wire. Spry and agile, Vera reclaims her body, her self, this moment. This is her private paradise that she just so happens to share with Joan. To be held and loved: what more could she hope for?

Color flushes from her cheeks as she crooks her legs, bent at the knees. Crumpled, riled sheets struggle beneath her. Relentless twisting and turning fuels this movie memory illusion. Tension mounts to the point where dear Vera seeks sweet relief.  
A tingle, a spark, down below causes her thumb to trace lazy circles before increasing in tempo. She imagines herself enveloped in velvet’s embrace, luxuriating in the Governor’s lap as her chaotic touch fills her to the pulsating core.

Racked by tremulous sighs, dear Vera wet her lips by pursing them. Her teeth dragged over her mouth. This is how it feels to be parched, she realizes. Meekness cast aside, she seeks relief. Crooked fingers delve between sinewy thighs to the sacred space between her legs. That persistent throb and ache drives her wild.

“I wish you were here,” she mewls out her confession on repeat, no longer burdened by nagging insecurities. 

In between the lines, the once demure deputy begs for completion.

Intently, dark eyes pierce the night and preserve this special, shared moment. Melbourne’s city lights melt behind her. She twists and turns through the suburbs, Vera’s home in plain sight.

“Mn. You deserve a reward for your obedience.”

Joan purrs, she rumbles, she grants permission.

“M-May I?” Vera asks, a single digit filling her to the brim.

Given her prudish history, it doesn’t take much. Past the damp curls, she enters with a lonely finger. One as two remains too much. Panting, her muscles tremble. Her body rises like unsettled waves against the misshapen shore.

How shameful to fuck herself to the fantasies of wasted potential with her superior.

“Yes,” Joan intones, her voice hoarse. She finds herself parched from watching, her car now settled in the driveaway.

With a pleasurable cry, Vera finds her sweet release well earned. She cums hard and fast, all shame ebbed away, her sheets nearly off the bed. Riding out the high, the last clenches and throbs follow. Sated, she basks in the afterglow.

Fingertips caress her parted lips. With flushed cheeks, she tastes herself. As is the case with most of life, she finds it bittersweet. A languid tongue traces over soaked digits. Akin to a cub with cream, she licks her fingers clean. Sated, a golden glow consumes her lithe body.

She makes sure that Joan sees.

Then, the camera stops. A knock follows. A wolf silently waits outside her door. There’s no need to pull on the robe. She rises from bed, from the dead stasis of her once mundane life, and greets temptation. Exposed, she reveals herself. She knows who the stranger is.


End file.
